


Doug notices

by FLWhite



Category: Goon (2011)
Genre: Breakups, Domestic, Doug is a puppy, Fluff 'n' Stuff, M/M, Post-Canon, Quebecois cussin', Xavier is thirsty, bromance vincit omnia, by stuff I mean oral sex, slight bloodplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:02:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27083821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FLWhite/pseuds/FLWhite
Summary: Doug knows he isn’t very good at noticing things.Which is why he knows Xavier must be really acting strange, because in the weeks before Halloween and right at the start of his second season with the Highlanders, he begins to notice some strange things.
Relationships: Doug Glatt/Eva (Goon), Doug Glatt/Xavier LaFlamme
Comments: 4
Kudos: 14





	Doug notices

**Author's Note:**

> Tabernac, [@hallo-catfish/ryuujitsu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryuujitsu) and I watch Goon ONCE knowing Marc-André Grondin would be in it being, frankly, hot as hell, but NOT knowing that we would immediately be moved to veritable explosions of filth (but tender filth, because it’s us). Enjoy, I hope? 
> 
> If this is too cutesy for you, go check out[ their version](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27084415) of tender filth.

Doug knows he isn’t very good at noticing things. 

Which is why he knows Xavier must be really acting strange, because in the weeks before Halloween and right at the start of his second season with the Highlanders, he begins to notice some strange things. 

Xavier coming home before ten p.m. every night for a lot of nights in a row, alone. Xavier sometimes giving him a one-armed hug after practice, or a game, or after they’ve finished off a six-pack of beers over an NHL game or an MMA match (which Xavier says that Doug should really have signed up for instead). Xavier _cooking_ on the range and, one Saturday evening, _turning on the oven_ . The oven that Doug had found actual and pretty big cobwebs inside of, when he’d first moved in and wanted to heat up a frozen pizza. Xavier sharing with Doug the not-too-terrible eggs over easy, the only slightly burnt tuna melts, and the downright impressive shepherd’s pie that were the outcomes of these adventures. Xavier’s hair looking really shiny and soft. Xavier’s aftershave (if that’s what it is; Doug notices a couple of new, frighteningly expensive-looking frosted glass bottles on the shelves behind the bathroom mirror) changing to something very nice and indefinably _fancy_ , definitely way fancier than the plastic-tub stuff Doug’s been using since he was fifteen. 

Most importantly, Xavier is smiling a lot at him, and sometimes not at him but at the floor, or the table, or out the living-room window at the big maple tree (makes sense: its leaves, turning, are a beautiful wildfire against the sky). Xavier’s eyelashes are very long and when he smiles big like this, crinkling his eyes, those heavy black lashes almost touch his cheeks. And looking at Xavier’s eyes when he’s crinkling them at Doug makes Doug’s chest feel strange. 

He says something, finally, one sunny Sunday morning after a hard, close-fought home game, as they sit across from each other, Xavier scrolling through his Facebook and Doug working on the Sunday sudoku; he may be not very smart, but he is very good at sudoku. “Xavier. Are you okay?”

Xavier blinks. “Yeah?” He gulps down some coffee; that new fancy smell wafts toward Doug as Doug watches the bob of his Adam’s apple. 

“Um, it’s—you seem a little—” he shuts his mouth and tries to think. _I wish you’d think for once before you open that mouth,_ Eva had said. _I wish you’d thought before opening it at that damn bar and ruining my life._ And she’d apologized later, when she came back for her clothes and things, for saying that. And he’d accepted her apology. They’d hugged, even, before she clattered down the stairs for the last time, refusing his offer to help with her suitcase of stuff.

The hug had been nice, but he wished she’d hit him instead.

And anyway, she had been right, Doug knows. He just finds it so hard to think, sometimes. Xavier’s new smell and the crinkling that Xavier’s doing even now at him are not helping. “You’re not staying out much anymore.” He cringes at how stupid he sounds.

“No, I’m not,” Xavier agrees. He drinks some more coffee; it lingers on his lower lip until he wipes it away with a single finger. He’s still smiling. 

“And your—” Doug realizes there is no way to say _your hair looks nice_ that is not weird. With his mouth hanging open, he feels like a constipated dog being called away by its owner. “Your pie was nice.”

“Thank you again.” Xavier chuckles. “Your appreciation was clear, man. _Caliss,_ you vacuumed that shit right up.”

“Yeah. It was really good. I—I’m sorry, if it’s—if it’s weird to ask you this—” Xavier leans in, no longer smiling, and Doug’s tongue is flopping around in his mouth like a dying fish. “But, um, how come?”

“How come what?”

“How come you’re not staying out anymore? And—and you’re not, um, not dating anymore? I thought Jessica was nice.”

Xavier is _really_ not smiling now. “Huh? Who’s Jessica?”

“Wasn’t—wasn’t she the one from Toronto? The um, the pastry chef. She gave me some cookies once. Well, cookie-type things. Stroop somethings.”

“Oh. Yeah.” Xavier is not-smiling at the ceiling. “Well, I mean, figured it wouldn’t feel nice for you to be all alone all the time after Eva left.”

Doug scrunches his forehead, counting backwards: Eva had left in mid-August. It had been a sickly-hot, sticky-hot day. He’d come back in after she slammed out the first time, leaving all her things in the bedroom and the bathroom and the closet, and he’d gone to lie down in the bed that still smelled like her and touch the hairbrush that still had her long brown hairs caught in its nubbly teeth and he’d cried so hard into the sheets that it’d made him break out in a sweat all over. Xavier had still been seeing Jessica then. He had been able to cry as loudly as he wanted, knowing that he’d be alone until the next morning. 

He guesses it would’ve been almost a whole month later, after Eva had returned to clean out her stuff, that Jessica stopped coming by. And soon after that had come the frosted bottles. The shiny hair. The oven. The smiling. 

Either way, though, he doesn’t want to drag Xavier down with his own problems; he says so. Xavier gives him a strange look, not quite mad but also kind of sad, and man, he’d thought his throat couldn’t get any drier and his tongue couldn’t feel any floppier, but he was wrong. Pushing a piece of hair out of his eyes, Xavier says, “You’re not dragging me down.” Then Xavier mutters something under his breath and looks more properly angry.

“I’m not really sad anymore,” he lies. For Xavier, it’s important that he be as brave as he can. “Eva’s better off back with Andrew.”

“Bullshit. That bi—she’s got no excuses, playin’ you like that.” Xavier reaches across the table and thumps him on the shoulder. “Let’s not talk about her anymore.” Crinkle. “Okay?”

“Okay.” He tries to smile back, but where his lip got split during the game stings something awful, so he grimaces instead. “Ow.”

“ _Marde_ ,” says Xavier, getting to his feet while thrusting the bit of paper towel he’d torn off for a napkin at Doug. “It’s bleeding again, fuck, keep it from runnin’ down your neck with this. Let me get the—” Xavier chokes a little, looking down at the patch of sunlight across the worn tabletop where Doug’s hand covers his own. 

“I’m okay, Xavier. It doesn’t hurt much,” Doug says around the paper towel he’s holding to his mouth with his other hand. “Xavier, what did you say just now?”

Xavier swallows, then swallows again. “What—I said let’s not talk about—”

“No, before that. Before ‘bullshit’ too.” 

“I said you’re—you’re not dragging me down.”

“After that. After that but before ‘bullshit’.” The taste of his own blood is doing something strange to Doug, as it seems to always: the metal and salt of it makes his vision go hard and sharp; he knows human ears can’t prickle but he swears his are prickled. On the ice, this means he can almost sense Xavier even without seeing him. Now, it’s like all he can see is Xavier above him and the blood that is pinkening Xavier’s face, all the way to the roots of his hair, like spilled dye. 

Xavier doesn’t say anything, just looks away, showing Doug his flame-colored ear and neck. And all of a sudden, Doug knows. It’s like in _Wheel of Fortune_ when there are enough letters on the board that he can finally guess the words and feel sure of not sounding stupid. “You said ‘wish you would.’ Is that what you said, Xavier?”

" _Tabernac_ ,” Xavier whispers, still turned away.

“What does that mean, Xavier?” He rises, too, slowly, Xavier’s hand held hot and tight in his. He’s never held it for this long before. It feels like it somehow fits there, like a key in a lock. “You _want_ me to drag you down?”

“Fuck, Doug, _yes_ !” Xavier yells. He expects Xavier to try to pull his hand away, but instead Xavier is coming around the corner of the table and throwing himself at Doug, full-length, like he is trying to body-check. But Doug is almost one hundred percent certain that checking never involves putting both arms around your opponent and squeezing this hard. Then, all of a sudden, Xavier has let go and is trying after all to pull away. “Fuck, _fuck_ , _osti de caliss._ Doug, you brick-for-brains, let me go.”

He doesn’t. Xavier’s hand squirms sweatily but he grips it tighter. The firm heat of Xavier’s side, under an Iron Maiden T-shirt, against his belly, churns his brain; his mouth is now making wordlike sounds on its own. “I still don’t get it, Xavier. I’m your friend. We’re on the same team. I don’t want to drag—”

“Doug, you motherfucker, I want _you_ , okay? _Okay_?” 

“Xavier, your face is so red, I think maybe— _oof_ ,” he says, as Xavier practically jumps at him to mash their mouths together; the blood that had almost stopped seeping from his cut lip begins to flow again, and without thinking at all he gets Xavier in his arms and in three big steps they’re across the room and falling together onto the couch, which groans in loud protest, and the sensation of Xavier’s tongue against the cut, against his teeth, probing and flicking, makes Doug groan too. 

When at last Xavier lets him up for air in order to yank at the hem of his hoodie, Doug says, “Oh. You meant drag like this. Literally.” It always feels good to put all the _Wheel of Fortune_ letters together.

“Yes, _tabernac_ , you asshole, you idiot, I meant like _this_ ,” Xavier nips at Doug’s jaw. His stubble does feel good there, sandpapery but also soft, somehow. “Ugh, _God_. Doug. Doug, touch me. Please.”

“I don’t really know what I’m doing,” he replies. “Oh, I—I got blood on you!” A fat streak, too, across Xavier’s lip and cheek and chin like the war-paint he and Ira would put on before going into the woods behind the old house, the house they’d lived in before Ira went off to college. He wipes at the blood with his thumbs, and Xavier makes a sound low in his throat that wraps around Doug’s dick like a fist. “Xavier—I—”

“Please, Doug. Please don’t fuckin’ say you don’t wanna,” says Xavier against his neck. “God damn it, every night when that bi—when she was over, hearing you make her scream like that—”

“Xavier. Xavier, are you gay?” 

For a long pause Xavier says nothing, just sits there in his lap, face pressed to his neck, and Doug begins to worry. He puts his hand on Xavier’s nape, pets the hair that is just as soft as it looks. “I don’t mind if you are, Xavier. My brother’s gay, and I love my brother, and his boyfriend’s really nice too—I just—”

“Doug, will you _please_ touch me?” Xavier’s eyes, point-blank, tighten that invisible fist around his dick. “I don’t care if you never wanna talk to me again. I don’t care, man, I don’t care if I fucking have to quit fucking hockey. I can’t—fucking—take it anymore.”

“Don’t say that. You’re amazing, Xavier. You, you’re why I’m here. You can’t quit.” He gasps: Xavier is biting the lobe of his ear. “Xavier—”

“Fine, okay, fine,” Xavier hisses directly into his ear. “Fine. Sit back. You can shut your eyes and pretend I’m whoever.”

“Why—?” Xavier’s hand falls heavily on his hard-on and he jolts, yelping; Xavier’s other hand is at his belt buckle, now, and its tinny clink as it’s pulled apart fills him with shame. He reaches out to stop Xavier, because nobody needs to see this. Nobody needs to know about the dreams he’s woken up from like this, especially not the very person in those dreams. 

“Shush.” The look Xavier’s giving to his saggy lazy-Sunday boxers with the good-sized rip on one leg makes his hard-on zoom right past Go without collecting its two hundred dollars and head way, way, way too fast for the Electric Company, or maybe the Water Works. No one’s ever looked at him like this, like he’s the last little bit of strawberry ice cream at the bottom of a carton they’re trying to scrape clean. “Fuck, Glatt, Jesus. No wonder she was screamin’.”

“Please don’t—don’t _look_ so much—sorry, Xavier, I—” and then Xavier’s hand is replaced by his mouth, his unbelievably wet and steam-hot mouth, with that devilish flicking tongue, and Doug’s head lolls backward onto the couch cushions and his fists knot in Xavier’s shirt and hair and he forgets to not pull too hard or to not make too much noise. Because it’s for Xavier’s sake that he keeps quiet, and now Xavier’s here, shoulders pressing his legs apart, hair tickling the insides of his thighs.

He’s never been sucked off like this, not by Eva, not by Aimeé, not by Lisa or Meaghan in high school; the slight scratch of Xavier’s chin against his balls and Xavier’s fingers carving ten dents into his calves, the depth that Xavier takes him—so deep that he can nearly feel Xavier’s throat working around him, Xavier’s hoarse panting around him, the perfect scrape of Xavier’s incisors on him, the slide of Xavier’s spit as it spills from Xavier’s lips—he makes the mistake of opening his eyes and looking, just as Xavier’s looking up at him from under his hand, and then before he can pull or push them apart, he’s shouting _sorry_ as he comes. 

In horror, Doug watches Xavier slowly levering himself upright, hands planted hard on Doug’s legs, which feel like Jell-O that never set properly. The couch groans some more. “Oh no, oh no,” he hears himself saying. “Xavier—” 

Xavier mops at his lips with the back of his hand. Doug cringes, watching a dribble of his own cum get caught and lapped up, without hesitation. “What?” Xavier’s voice is snappish, low and rough, but his cheeks are very pink and his eyes look almost sleepy, like when he’s just smoked a lot of pot.

“Sorry, that was faster than I thought, I—”

“Glatt. Come here.” He winces. “Dougie. _Doug._ ” Xavier’s arms close around him, and Xavier feels really good pressed all along him like this, and he has to try hard not to lean in too hard, because he doesn’t want them to both fall over, especially not Xavier, who’s backed up right against the coffee table. “I’m not sorry. Don’t be fuckin’ sorry.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“Your lip bled a little more.” 

Doug licks experimentally at it. “It’s stopped now.”

“Mm.” 

“Xavier. I—I don’t think I’m gay.”

“Okay. Don’t think I am either.” Xavier shakes his head a little, huffing. “Guess I’m one’a those bisexuals, though.”

“Okay.” Doug’s secretly always liked that word, _bisexual_. It sounds like _bicycle_ a bit, and he imagines Xavier laughing and looking back at himself, seated in the front of a tandem bicycle. “Um, but—but, you’re not sorry?”

“No. Fuck no.” 

Xavier doesn’t ask him, but he says “Me neither” anyway, because it’s true.

“But if you’re still feeling sorry for coming like a fuckin’ _bullet train_ , you know, you could do something about it.” Xavier bumps him meaningfully, hip to hip. “To make it up to me. Keep things fair.”

“Okay,” he says, and smiles because, first of all, in addition to bicycles, he’s also always liked trains, and second of all, Xavier’s crinkling at him again and when he bends to kiss Xavier, soft and nice because his mouth does kind of hurt, saying that he’s always wanted to be a bullet train, he manages to make Xavier chuckle. 

And that feels so _right_ , that warm little bubble of Xavier against him where his blood ran, that he knows all he’ll want, at least for the rest of this slow bright day, is to make it happen again.


End file.
